


A Slave to the Senses

by Edonohana



Category: Enterprise: The First Adventure - Vonda N. McIntyre, Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Character Tries A New Food For The First Time, Character gets a good meal for first time in ages, Damn Fine Cup of Coffee, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, Food, Intimidating Alien Dish Proves Surprisingly Non-Toxic, Loyalty, Mirror Universe, Shared Meals, Slavery, Worldbuilding, strange and unusual ingredients
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-17
Updated: 2020-04-17
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:15:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23692219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Edonohana/pseuds/Edonohana
Summary: Mirror Uhura claims Mirror Janice Rand as a slave. She could do anything with her, so naturally she decides to treat her to a good breakfast.
Relationships: Mirror Janice Rand/Mirror Nyota Uhura
Comments: 9
Kudos: 32
Collections: Flash In The Pan: A Food Flash Exchange





	A Slave to the Senses

**Author's Note:**

  * For [scioscribe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/scioscribe/gifts).



> Non-graphic references to backstory abuse by space pirates. Power differential. References to general Mirrorverse sleaziness.

It wasn’t the first time the _Enterprise_ had taken a slave or two as a spoil of war, nor was it the first time an officer had claimed one. But it was the first time for Uhura.

She hardly needed or wanted a slave. But when Lieutenant Hadley stepped forward to take possession of the cowering woman, Uhura, for once, let herself be ruled by instinct. Whipping her knife from her boot, she had it at his throat before he could blink. “I claim this slave. Any arguments?”

She swept her gaze around the room. No one spoke but Hadley, who let out a strangled, “You can have her!”

Uhura released him. Still keeping a wary eye on him and his friends, she addressed the slave. “Come with me.”

Once they were in the relative safety of her quarters, Uhura let herself relax enough to wonder what the hell had gotten into her. Sure, she and Hadley had been jockeying for position, but there were other ways to show up his weakness than saddling herself with a random slave.

Well, done was done. She glanced at the slave, who instantly ducked her head, not looking into Uhura’s eyes. Her dirty pale hair hung forward, hiding her face.

“Straighten up, and clean up,” Uhura said brusquely. She pointed to the bathroom. “You know how to use a sonic shower, don’t you?”

The woman straightened, mostly, but still didn’t meet Uhura’s eyes. “Yes. It was part of my training.”

“What training?”

There was a trace of pride in the woman’s voice as she said, “I was intended to be a Starfleet yeoman.” It vanished as she went on, “But when our ship was taken by pirates, they trained me to do… other things.”

Uhura had no need to inquire into the nature of those, nor did a recital of the sordid details interest her. What did intrigue her was the yeoman training. Uhura had captured a prize indeed. One which would undoubtedly create trouble, once Hadley realized that he’d lost something far more valuable than the chance at “other things.” But that was a problem for another day. 

“What’s your name?” Uhura asked.

“Rand. Um, Janice Rand.” She looked expectant, then flinched as if she might be punished for it.

Uhura disliked all the flinching and trembling, so much so that she was tempted to order Rand to stop it. But that would probably only make her do it more. So she simply said, “I’m Lieutenant Uhura. Now go clean up. You can get clothing from the replicator.”

Rand shot her a nervous glance. 

“What?” Uhura asked.

Rand flinched _again_. “What clothing may I request?”

Uhura was annoyed at herself, not Rand; obviously the woman would have no idea what she was allowed to wear. She considered telling her to ask for something suitable for a Captain’s Lady, then realized there was something she wanted to see on Rand even more. “A yeoman’s uniform. There’s a hair-styler, too. Use it.” 

When the bathroom door slid shut behind her, the intensity of relief made Rand’s legs go out from under her. She only barely managed to catch herself with her hands to stop herself from making a suspicious thud when she sat down hard on the floor.

There was no such thing as safety, when you were a slave. Rand knew perfectly well that she’d only traded the anarchic cruelty of the pirate ship for the more refined and controlled cruelty of Starfleet. But she’d been trained for Starfleet. She’d _wanted_ Starfleet. The _Enterprise_ was a place where slaves who worked and planned and pleased their masters could live a decent life. They might even be freed, if their masters chose to trade the absolute control over a pawn for the loyalty of an ally. 

At last, Rand was where she belonged. And she’d be _damned_ if she let the fearful habits the pirates had beaten into her deprive her of the chance she’d been given. 

Forcing herself to her feet, she shed her disgusting rags, fed them into the disposal unit, got into the sonic shower, and let it vaporize her silent tears. She couldn’t ruin this chance, because she’d never get another. Rand could only hope she hadn’t ruined it already with her instinctive cowering. It was obvious that her new master disliked that.

When she stepped out of the shower, her hair crackled and rose around her. Rand stroked it down, and got a shock. Clean at last, it sparked and clung with static electricity. She hadn’t realized how long it had gotten. Free of mats and tangles, it hung past her hips. 

A similar static flickered through her nerves. If she had one more chance, it was now. 

She forced her voice to steady as she ordered a Starfleet yeoman’s uniform, then put it on. It fit like a second skin, clean and soft, made just for her. She looked at herself in the mirror, and felt her expression and posture shift to suit the uniform. A yeoman was confident, organized, and subtle. A yeoman didn’t press her ears to doors, but strode by, leaving tiny listening devices in her wake.

The hair, pretty as it was, wouldn’t do. It would shed and get caught in things. It was too easily grabbed and toyed with. What she needed was something discreet and unnoticeable. The hair would have to go.

It was a shame. Uhura’s hair-styler was top of the line, as was her makeup-applicator, and she obviously knew her way around them. That woman looked like a razor-sharp dagger in a silken-soft sheath. Half the reason Rand had been afraid to look at her was that she wasn’t sure how her master would react if her gaze lingered a second too long. Masters relished looking at slaves, not the other way around.

Rand felt an unaccustomed smile twitch at her lips. Uhura was beautiful and fierce, a dagger of a woman. And she’d asked Rand to dress in a uniform, not in gauze. Rand shouldn’t think about avoiding the gaze of the rest of the crew, she should think about putting on a beautiful and fierce face for herself. She’d present herself as a woman who might, someday, stride at her master’s side with her head held high.

Rand sat down to program the hair-styler and the makeup-applicator. 

The door slid shut behind Rand. Uhura went to the replicator. The woman looked half-starved. But much as it seemed like a favor to let her choose her own food, Uhura doubted she’d take it that way. Uhura could just imagine the flinching and terrified glances as Rand tried to figure out if her choice was a test and what she was supposed to choose and how she’d be punished if she failed. 

Uhura strongly suspected that Rand would prefer eating food she disliked to being forced to state what she wanted. Which meant that if Uhura wanted her to enjoy _something_ , she’d have to come up with a wide selection. And probably eat it with her, too, so she’d know it wasn’t drugged. 

She eyed the replicator, irritably thinking that having a slave was already a lot of work, then listed off her choices. As the replicator materialized her requests, Uhura placed them on the table. She was just finishing when Rand emerged from the bathroom. 

Uhura had noticed that Rand was pretty, of course. But she hadn’t gotten a good look at her, what with all the flinching and ducking and general state of grubbiness. This Rand seemed to have gained confidence along with the clean-up. She stood up straight, making Uhura realize that her slave was taller than she was. Her hair was flaxen and silky-looking, wound and twisted atop her head in an intricate style that caught Uhura’s attention like the maze it resembled. 

The yeoman’s uniform suited her, clinging to her breasts and showing off her long, strong legs. And at last, she was looking Uhura in the eyes. Hers, Uhura noted with a slightly dazed feeling, were a clear hazel. She’d applied smoky makeup that made them look even bigger.

“I replicated some breakfast,” Uhura said. 

Rand stared down at the table set for two, so stunned that she felt numb. Of course owners provided food for their slaves, or allowed them to obtain their own. The pirates had let her scavenge table scraps, and her previous master had given her access to a replicator pre-programmed with three nourishing meals per day. But masters didn’t make their slaves breakfast. Nor did they sit down with them to share it.

“Sit down,” said Uhura. 

Rand sat with an audible thud that made her flinch. Steam wafted up from some of the cups and dishes, bringing scents of sugar, citrus, smoked meat, toasted bread. Inexplicably, her eyes stung with tears.

“Do you know what all of this is?” Uhura asked.

Ah. So this was the test. Rand swallowed hard, forcing back the tears, and carefully examined the meal. “Am I allowed to taste first, or do I go by scent and appearance?”

Uhura gave her a look that made her quail, then shook her head. “Sorry.”

Rand was so startled by a master apologizing to a slave that she almost missed Uhura’s next words, which were equally significant. “That wasn’t meant as a test. I just… I’ll tell you what everything is, and we’ll both have some. If you don’t like anything, you don’t have to eat more than a bite.”

“I actually am familiar with some of it,” Rand volunteered. “That is, I know coffee by scent, and I’ve had bread. The other drink is citrus-flavored—I’ve had citrus powder drink. And those strips are dried meat, aren’t they? I’ve had that.”

Uhura’s brown eyes widened, first with what Rand thought was surprise and… surely not pity? Then she smiled. Rand knew what that smile meant. It was the anticipation of pleasure. It was familiar and alien at once: the occasion didn’t seem to prompt it, and Rand had never found it an attractive expression before. 

“Let’s start with the coffee,” Uhura said. “You may not enjoy it if you haven’t had it before. It’s an acquired taste. Mildly addictive.”

“I know.” It was a mark of power. Slaves were not normally allowed coffee. They were always supposed to be alert, without the assistance of stimulants. Rand hadn’t expected the coffee to be offered to her, and she was eager to try it. “I know how to serve it, if you tell me how you like it.”

“Oh… of course. Milk and sugar for me, and make yours the same.” Uhura winced slightly before adding, “Plenty of both.”

Rand poured out Uhura’s coffee, then her own. She followed Uhura as she raised the cup to her lips. The coffee had more of a bitter undertone than she’d expected from the scent.

“What do you think?” Uhura asked. 

Honestly, Rand said, “It’s a taste I look forward to acquiring.”

Uhura laughed, but not as if Rand had said something ignorant—more as if she’d made a clever witticism. Indicating the glass of pale yellow liquid, she said, “And this is the citrus. From fruit, not powder. It’s sweet lemon, and I don’t think you’ll need to acquire a taste for it.”

Rand drank with Uhura. The juice did in fact taste like lemon, if lemon wasn’t sour. It was far more complex than powder, with an undertone that reminded her of flowers. “How many kinds of citrus fruit can a replicator reproduce?”

“Now that is an interesting question,” said Uhura. “Computer! How many kinds of citrus fruit can a replicator reproduce?”

The computer spoke in a female voice. “One thousand, two hundred, and forty-six. Two hundred and twelve are toxic to humans, and an additional three hundred and forty are considered unpalatable by humans.”

Rand was fascinated. “It would take almost two Earth years to try them all. Not counting the toxic and unpalatable ones.”

Uhura gave her a sharp glance. “Do you always calculate in Earth years?”

“Um… No. It was just so close to exactly two of them, it came to mind. It’s also close to one Denebian year. Or six Quartillian ones. Or—” She forced herself to shut up, and dropped her gaze to the plates. Uhura surely didn’t care about Rand’s idiotic flight of fancy over how long it would take to try all the citrus. 

Uhura gave her an odd, unreadable look, then shook her head and moved on. “Those strips aren’t dried meat, they’re smoked meat. Pig belly: bacon. Funny you should mention Quartillia—that’s where the grain the toast is made of is from. It’s called…” She made a liquid trilling sound. “Like wheat, but lighter. Sweeter. The butter is from Earth cows.”

Uhura buttered her toast, and Rand did the same. The butter, which she had assumed was a form of standard fat, behaved differently: it melted into the toast, even at heat low enough to be touched with bare hands. The toast was crisp, shattering in her mouth, and the butter added a rich, pleasant flavor. The bacon too was crisp, and it didn’t taste anything like jerky. Rand devoured her share regrettably fast; after it was gone, she wished she’d lingered longer.

And there was more. Incredibly, there was more. A light broth from a Vulcan vegetable with Corellian pickles, juicy slices of Aldebaran finnie, and sweet Earth pastries called “mahamri” and “mochi” and “madeleines.” 

At last, there was nothing left but a silver dome over a plate. With a flourish, Uhura lifted off the dome. 

“And this is…” Uhura made a series of glottal choking noises. “It’s… hmm, maybe you should just try it.”

Rand eyed the… _dish,_ it was a _dish,_ not a thing that might spring up and eat her face… probably… with clamped-down alarm. It resembled, insofar as it resembled anything, a heap of rusty engine parts caught halfway through the process of transforming into a Denebian screaming squid. 

She couldn’t help wondering if this was a test to see if she was stupid enough to actually try it. But no, a master would never be pleased with a slave for disobeying. Rand stabbed a tentacle-screw-thing, imitating Uhura’s movement, and put it in her mouth. 

It dissolved instantly, leaving behind nothing but a haunting flavor like… Rand searched her memory for what it most resembled, but could think of no comparison, however far-fetched, other than the sweet lemon juice. But that was like saying that a starship resembled a child’s clay model of one. It was like a fruit, and it was both sweet and tangy. And that was all the resemblance there was.

“Oh!” Rand exclaimed involuntarily.

Uhura laughed. “It tastes better than it looks, doesn’t it?”

They finished the dish in silence. It required nothing less. 

“I enjoyed this,” Uhura said when they were done, leaving it ambiguous as to exactly what she’d enjoyed. “More than I expected.”

Rand felt the same way, though of course she couldn’t say so. She settled on, “Thank you.”

“I’ll be honest,” said Uhura. “I’ve never wanted a slave. They always seemed more trouble than they were worth. You can free them, of course, but then they become another moving piece to keep track of. One more person of uncertain loyalties and unknown ambitions. When I claimed you, I did it to take away something Hadley wanted, not for your own sake… Mostly.”

Uhura paused, as if waiting for Rand to jump in. A test? Rand could no longer tell what was one or wasn’t. But Uhura hadn’t yet set her up to fail.

Rand took a deep breath, and risked everything. “If you freed me, my loyalties wouldn’t be uncertain. They’d be yours. And my greatest ambition would be to support yours. Free me, and I’ll serve you and spy for you and…” 

She swallowed, stopping herself from blurting out the other things she’d be willing—eager, to be honest—to do for Uhura. Rand didn’t even know if Uhura liked women that way. She could feel the anticlimax down to her bones as she concluded, “…and pour your coffee in the morning.”

“Oh? In the _morning?_ ” Uhura’s teasing tone made Rand certain that she not only did like women that way, but she knew exactly what Rand had been thinking… and liked that, too. But she spoke seriously when she said, “I think that’s the first honest thing I’ve heard on this ship. You’re a free woman, Yeoman Rand. I accept your loyalty, and I extend my protection.”

Uhura held up her coffee cup for the ritual drink.

Rand had imagined this moment before, though not over a breakfast table and not with Uhura. She’d always thought she’d be so overwhelmed that she’d struggle to keep her composure. But now that it was actually happening, she felt calm and steady. Her stomach was full, her body was comfortable, and her hands didn’t tremble as she lifted her cup and touched it to Uhura’s.

They both drank deeply. 

“I think I’ve acquired a taste for it,” said Rand.


End file.
